When Jonathan Met Annie
by GlassBomb
Summary: Only Jonathan isn't Jonathan and Annie isn't Annie. xD Sherry with a twist - now finally complete!
1. Chapter 1

**I apologise for how utterly left-field this it, but I got the idea, and it simply had to be written. Two losers in love, two false identities, one dating website - ta-da, and off we go with part one of three! :D x**

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Christ on a _bike_, he needed to get out more. How had it come to this - the original Cockney lothario, the brave and sexy policeman with a different bird every weekend irrespective of his marital status, the hardened, thief-taking, hunk of the East End… not having had sex in _six entire months_? When had it come to an ego-destroying choice of either having to click the button to submit his details to an internet dating website or facing the prospect of _another_ half a year with his only his right hand for company? He was beginning to get repetitive strain injury, for Christ's sake! What the hell had _happened_ to him?

Ah yes, the greatest passion killer this side of being the Elephant Man - _old age. _Yes, that was surely it, because Gerry Standing flat-out refused to accept that he was losing that legendary touch he had once been a Met hero for. Indeed, six months ago yesterday, he had turned sixty-four - apparently, sixty-three year-olds were far more appealing. So much for that old classic, _When I'm 64. _When Gerry Standing was sixty-four, he didn't get any - _ever._

"Swallow your pride, you old bastard," he instructed himself in a snapped whisper. "You can't keep dropping heavy files and claiming an old tennis injury…"

Sucking a sharp intake of breath, he forced himself to ingest an enormous piece of humble pie and, screwing his eyes shut, clicked the treacherous button innocently dubbed 'submit'.

_Quelle surprise_, the world was still intact when he prised cagey eyelids apart moments later.

_Do not think in French_, he scolded himself internally. _You're as London as jellied eels._

God only knows what he was worried about - to those not in the know, he was now fifty-five year-old Jonathan Stokes, a lover of Indian food (_yeah right_), fascinated by art history (_ha!) _and laden down by the burden of bearing a striking resemblance to George Clooney (_and to think that he'd assumed the copy of Photoshop Paula had burned onto disc for him last year would only be useful as a beer coaster - oh ye of little faith, Gerald_.) Most importantly, however, he was very much in control of his own erectile functions and not even slightly reliant on little blue pills, thank-you-OH-so-very-much. Even if by some miracle his friends, family or colleagues happened to stumble across both the website and his profile, his identity was safe and sound.

Speaking of colleagues, he really should get to work - it was past nine already and he lived a good half an hour's drive through gridlocked, rush-hour London from the Met. It wasn't like he'd gotten up late either - he'd been sitting here in his grey suit and purple tie for two and three-quarter hours, working up sufficient bravado and attempting to relinquish his self-esteem enough to post his bloody details.

Closing down the laptop, he allowed himself a brief, indulgent smirk as a twinge in his wrist made him drop his keys.

Old tennis injury indeed - he hadn't so much as _watched _Wimbledon since Cliff Richard's rousing rendition of _Summer Holiday._

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Twelve hours later, glass of wine expertly clutched in her free hand, a certain Annie Malloy was growing steadily more intrigued by the profile of a certain Jonathan Stokes.

Only, of course, it wasn't Annie Malloy - it was, in a strange twist of ironic fate, one Detective Superintendent Sandra Pullman. Furthermore, it was a Sandra Pullman who enjoyed football, Stella Artois, worked as a bank clerk, was forty-eight and looked remarkably like a digitally altered version of Marilyn Monroe - strange, that. The world - and Photoshop - worked in mysterious ways. Hell, it wasn't like she was attracting anyone offline as a fifty-three year-old spinster copper, so there was no harm in a little poetic licence. Like her, Jonathan appeared to be a new member - time for a little introduction, in that case. Anyone who looked that much like George Clooney had to be worth a punt, regardless of how far she got. Opening a private message window, she briefly considered whether to be smart, funny or overenthusiastic - quickly deciding that it was probably best just to keep it simple, she scrawled out a few words, nodded to herself, clicked send and waited, semi-nervous, for a response.

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"'_Hello'_," Gerry/Jonathan read aloud several minutes later, tearing his eyes away from a fellow singleton's breasts for long enough to notice he had a private message. _"'Nice to make your acquaintance - here's hoping for a chat. Yours, Annie.' _Bit bloody formal innit?"

He followed the hyperlink that highlighted her name, fully expecting some mumsy-type with twelve cats and a degree in something frivolous - Art History, perhaps, or maybe Architecture. He could just imagine the conversation now - _"do you think we should landscape the attic, darling?"_

Shuddering at the prospect,he was pleasantly surprised to see that the woman he was greeted with the summarised life of was in fact gorgeous - and not only that, but she had no interest in Art or Architecture, she didn't own a single cat, her favourite drink was lager and _she supported Chelsea._

"Dear _god_," he murmured, astonished. "We could be talking _soulmates_ here…"

Hurriedly scrawling out a characteristically cheeky response, he grinned as he sent it.

"See what you make of _that _then," he muttered, chuckling to himself.

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Unlike her new would-be suitor, Sandra Pullman was after a long-term relationship - not that her profile stated that, of course. In her experience, men were put off at five hundred paces by any bird who told them she wanted to be with them forever. No, her details merrily stated that she was after a pint or five, a no-strings shag and a cup of tea the following morning. Misleading, yes - unfair? Not entirely. The way she saw it, it was a win-win situation - if the gentleman in question happened to like her afterwards, then all the better, and if he didn't, she hadn't lost anything except yet another notch on her bedpost.

She could do with a new bedstead anyway - her black leather one was a nightmare in summer.

This chap, however… well, he was a little different. She had never met anyone who was both excited by Cubism and loved a lamb biryani - and so _handsome_ too! This was the sort of eligible bachelor she could fall in love with - intelligent, cultured, wise…

Her inbox beeped for attention, and she beamed as she clicked on it, anticipating a charming, erudite response that would elicit a deep, delighted sigh from her ruby lips.

_Dear Annie,_

_I've looked at your profile, and after a moment's thought, I have deduced that Annie, you have most __certainly__ got my 'gun'._

_Faithfully (well, at least for the first night!)_

_John x_

The smile slid unceremoniously, with flawless comic timing, from her features, and she did indeed sigh - with disappointment.

Ah well - that's what you got for saying you were only after beer and casual sex. _Que sera sera _and all that jazz - maybe she should just accept that the only men that would ever fancy her were those ones that sounded uncannily like Gerry and give it up permanently.

So when seconds later she found herself clicking 'reply' and typing an equally crass response, she briefly questioned her sanity. Deciding it was still worth a go despite increasingly bleak prospects, she grimaced slightly and awaited the response that would determine whether or not this was a shag or a potential marriage.

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_Dear Jonathan,_

'_Stokeing' your fire, am I? I should be a vulcanologist - I'll have you exploding within minutes._

_Missing your considerable charm already,_

_Annie x_

…Okay, he was officially horny. Not that it took much, but _christ…_

"_Composure_ Gerald," he scolded himself coolly. "You are not goin' to let a bird get the best of you - you're old-school, classically trained in the art of pulling, and you do _not_ get flustered…"

To this day, it was still considered a miracle in some cult circles that men like Gerry Standing hadn't died out with the dinosaurs.

He rubbed his hands together, embracing the madness and grinning gleefully at the screen.

Ah, this was going to be _fun._


	2. Chapter 2

_Note: I am SO sorry this has taken so long. I've been battling through writer's block and I'm a busy woman at the best of times, but nevertheless, here we have it. I faithfully promise the next bit will be quicker!_

_Enjoy!_

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"You're in a good mood," Jack observed several mornings later as Gerry waltzed into UCOS, whistling _It Don't Mean A Thing If You Ain't Got That Swing_, face split by a stupid grin.

"Why not, Jacky-boy, when life is so bloody _marvellous?" _The Cockney replied chirpily, and Jack rose an amused eyebrow.

"What's her name?"

The fact that his colleague didn't even seem to mentally berate his own predictability spoke volumes to the ex-Chief Superintendent.

"Annie," Gerry answered, murmuring her name as a blissful rhapsody, which was met accordingly with Jack's uproarious laughter.

"Don't bloody laugh!" The Cockney snapped, which only served to crack Jack up further - by the time Gerry had mentioned that he really liked 'this one', the older man was wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes.

"What's the bleedin' joke?"

Jack swiped a hand through the air in mock defeat, shaking his head and still chuckling heartily.

"I'm sorry," he responded, supremely unapologetic, "there's no call for it really…"

A disgusted frown overtook the former Sergeant's lips, spitting poison as he headed grouchily for the kettle.

"You can just piss off," he growled, and Jack actually clutched his side, shaking with chortles.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"I bloody well will do if you don't shut up!" Gerry fumed, threateningly brandishing a teaspoon in his friend's general direction.

Inhaling sharply to retain both his sanity and a good working relationship with his colleague, Jack held up a palm as a gesture of mock defeat.

"You just tell me when I need to buy the tux, mate…"

With an agility he thought he'd lost a good thirty years previously, Jack ducked at precisely the right moment as the teaspoon sailed towards his head and instead smacked directly into the chest of Brian Lane, who had just walked through the door and now looked morbidly offended.

"Give over!" The Northerner snapped, chucking it right back at the furious Cockney, who easily caught it and went straight back to stirring his tea with a graceful fluidity, as though this was an everyday occurrence.

"Sorry mate," he apologised briefly, taking a sip of the beverage before glaring daggers at Jack. "_Someone's_ being a prick."

"Are you?" Brian asked Jack with interest, and Jack smirked wickedly, clapping a hand to his friend's shoulder.

"Don't believe a word of it," he replied lightly. "You know me, Brian - I'm nothing short of a paragon of virtue."

Brian rose a cynical eyebrow, resting his bike against the office wall and removing his helmet.

"Yeah," he deadpanned, "and I'm Joan of Arc."

Gerry snorted PG Tips with amusement, spluttering for a moment before chuckling madly, coughing harshly and resuming his laughter. Jack simply muttered something about them both being _'just about ready for nursery'_ and projected his fountain pen at the raucous ex-DS like a dart. Utterly missing due to his irritation, it instead collided with the soft black fabric of the coat of Sandra Pullman, who stood at UCOS's entrance and looked less than pleased. Brian sucked a harsh intake of breath through his teeth and mimed having his throat slit at the now nervous Jack, and Gerry merely clapped a hand to his shoulder.

"Been nice knowing you, mate," he exclaimed mirthfully, standing aside as Sandra knelt, picked the pen up and aimed at a passive Jack, who didn't dare try and dodge the proverbial bullet - the iridium nib struck him in the shoulder, smearing his suit jacket briefly with ink, before sliding directly downwards to the carpet. With a satisfied smile, Sandra headed for her office, calling out a 'good morning!', and being met with two enthusiastic similar wishes.

"Yes," Jack answered despondently, removing his jacket and staring bleakly at the large blob of rapidly drying ink upon its collar, "isn't it just…"

"You're not going to take that lying down, are you?" Gerry asked incredulously, still hellishly amused, and Jack tapped his temple knowingly.

"You haven't seen her in a shooting range," he explained darkly. "Trust me, I'm lucky she aimed for my shoulder. I could have just gone blind - far be it from me to tempt fate."

Brian snickered appreciatively as the Superintendent made her way back into the main office, grinned at Jack and clapped her hands together once.

"Right then," she stated chirpily, "one of you can make me tea, someone else can update me on the double murder and the other one can ask me how my life's going."

"The latter," Gerry claimed immediately, curiosity ignited, eyebrows almost level with his receding hairline. "'Ow's your life going, Sandra?"

"_Wonderfully_," she emphasised, murmuring a contented sigh. "New man, Gerald."

She tapped the side of her nose playfully, and Gerry was momentarily bewildered as he felt an unconscious stab pierce his insides. Careful t0 keep his expression schooled into neutrality rather than horror and briefly wondering why he had to bother, he tried to sound intrigued as he swallowed harshly.

"Oh yeah?" He enquired as lightly as he was capable of.

"Oh yes," she responded, winking wickedly before turning to Jack and Brian.

"Tea," Jack said instantly, and Brian sighed as he practically ran to the kettle with a triumphant grin. Sandra smiled encouragingly at the ex-Inspector, who rolled his eyes and led her to the whiteboard. Gerry, meanwhile, was left staring at the spot they'd both vacated, and spun on his heel as they reached the edge of the office, incapable of maintaining the working order.

"No, I'm sorry," he stated coolly, staring directly at Sandra, "you can't just leave that 'anging."

The Superintendent stared at him, utterly vexed.

"Leave _what _hanging?"

"That!" The Cockney practically snapped. "The bloody thing about a new bloke!"

She rose an exasperated eyebrow, looking less than amused.

"You're never normally bothered," she pointed out lightly.

Only Gerry's utter hatred of the French and their linguistic atrocities prevented him from spitting out a curt response of "au contraire". Oh no, of _course _he wasn't bothered - why should he be bothered? It wasn't like he lov -

_Oh, you can just stop right there, _his mind piped up in warning. _Really. Think about prostitutes, Gerald…_

No, that was never going to work. Nothing would drag him away from that earth-shattering realisation.

_Prostitutes in swimwear?_

Mmm, getting there…

_Prostitutes dressed as policewomen?_

… _Bollocks!_

"Yeah, well… I am this time," he managed lamely, painfully aware that six eyes were scrutinising him with decades of detective experience.

_Bloody brilliant_, his mind snapped_. A magnificent excuse, Standing - truly Oscar-winning, you bleedin' MORON._

Only Sandra's clipped response prevented him from smashing his skull into the nearest wall in self-deprecation.

"Your concern has been noted."

_Oh good. Thank you for THAT._

"Yeah, well - I've got a new bird an' all!"

_Congratulations - you've just managed to make yourself look about as mature as your eight-year-old grandson._

_SHUT UP!_

Unbeknown to the internally furious Cockney, Sandra felt a knife plunging somewhere deep within her, and she damn near shuddered.

_So he's got someone new - again_, she deadpanned mentally. _So what? Not like you normally give a damn, is it?_

_Bullshit_, her mind rebuked, laughing bitterly. _Oh no, you don't love him or anything, do you? Not the perfect, clinical, hard, cold bitch… she's not meant to care, is she?_

"How nice for you," she answered dryly, unsuccessfully attempting to swallow the nastiness encumbered in the words. "Can we get on with the case now?"

Practically snarling, Gerry broke her glare and delved into his coat pocket, pulling out his trusty Malboro.

"You can do what the 'ell you like," he snapped. "I'm off out for a fag."

"Oh, are you?" The Superintendent spat back.

"Yes," Gerry sneered, grabbing his lighter and cup of tea in one vicious swipe, holding her enraged gaze as he headed outwards. "I bloody well am!"

The glass almost shattered as he slammed the door after him, and Brian eyes widened with astonishment in his friend's wake.

"Alright," he said heavily, "what the HELL was that about?"

"No idea," Jack replied solemnly, glancing at his watch, "but I do know it's a personal record - none of us have ever walked out at five past nine before. The closest was me at ten past eleven, but that was for a dental appointment."

"Pass," Sandra answered coldly, anger and pain still flowing freely through her veins. "All I know is that if he doesn't come back, he'd better hope he doesn't want any more children, the stupid prick!"

Both Brian and Jack sucked air in through their teeth, wincing horribly.

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_Hard day at the office - would appreciate a virtual hug. Jon x_

Sandra smiled warmly for the first time since that morning, feeling all of the day's animosity melt away at Jonathan's message. Gerry _hadn't _come back, and had in fact subsequently switched his phone off. She had briefly considered popping round and half-killing him, but the day and their argument over virtually nothing had drained her of all energy - she could barely be bothered to hunt out a takeaway menu from the kitchen drawer, never mind screaming the odds at the wayward prat.

Besides, as much as it killed her to realise it, he was his own man - he could do whatever he liked with whomsoever he liked, and she was past of point of pretending she was angry with him for skipping the day's work.

She pinched the bridge of her nose to ward off the impending headache before typing a brief but sincere response. Their 'relationship' had really picked up over the past few days, and she almost felt like she knew this man personally - he was her best option of any comfort this evening, at any rate.

_Yeah, me too - colleagues, eh? Virtual hug on its way. Annie x_

Sipping her wine with almost physical relief, she closed her eyes and waited for the bleep that would indicate that he had replied. Several minutes, two aspirin and a muttered curse of Gerry's name later, and she opened the new response.

_Tell me about it. Are you hungry? x_

The detective rose an eyebrow, wondering where this was going, almost able to sense his hesitancy.

_Starving, but I'm an atrocious cook and the number for the Chinese could be anywhere. Why do you ask? x_

This time, the answer was almost immediate.

_Was wondering if you fancied some dinner…? No pressure, obviously. My treat. X_

For someone who desired nothing more than to spend the evening in a tracksuit, lamenting bravado-enriched Cockneys with attitude problems between Sky-Plussed episodes of _Strictly Come Dancing, _Sandra took barely a moment to convince.

_Sounds brilliant_, she answered honestly. _I need to forget today ever happened. x_

_That makes two of us, Annie. Eight, in The Garden of the Orient - that alright with you? X_

It was like fate - that was her favourite Chinese restaurant in the whole city.

_I look forward to it. X_

She signed off, renewed energy pulsing through her veins. Yes, that was what she was going to do - she was going to meet a man she was fond of, not curl up with the remainder of the Ben & Jerry's Cookie Dough and wallow in self-pity. She was going to go out, have fun, bring him back, work off her anger and then repeat the procedure the following evening, and so on and so forth - and to hell with what she looked like in that profile photo. She'd just say it was an old shot.

… a VERY old shot.

Most importantly of all, however, she wasn't going to spare a thought for that insensitive, insufferable, rude, crass, irritating, sexy bastard that she was halfway in love with.

_Go with the LBD, Sandra - classy and just a little bit suggestive._

Grinning now, she headed for the shower, nerves fluttering through her and optimism stealing her heart for the first time all day.

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_I look forward to it. X_

Leaning back and removing his glasses, Gerry Standing blew out a relieved breath he hadn't realised he was holding - that could have gone _far_ worse. God only knew how much he needed to take his mind off things - Sandra was going to go absolutely nuclear on him tomorrow morning, and probably rightfully so. He had acted ridiculously, and not going back to face the music of his own immaturity would have hardly helped matters.

He sighed deeply, flicking his forehead in self-annoyance - was it really her fault that she meant the world to him? After all, he held no claim to her…

But she had been unnaturally rude to him, and he had been entirely justified in his response to that.

_Where the hell's that pink jumper? _He wondered idly. _Might make a good impression…_

Yes, that was what he was going to do. He was going to go out, have fun, have a decent meal, drink a little too much, end up in a cab and hopefully with a cheap shag. He was categorically not going to sit here with taped episodes of _Strictly Come Dancing, _whiskey and only his thoughts for company. So he looked nothing like that bloke online, but hey… it was an old photo, right? Practically ancient.

Mostly though, he was not going to think of Sandra once - that infuriating, brilliant, delicious, stunning bitch of an Ice Queen that was probably going to remove his gentleman vegetables in the morning.

_Best make use of them tonight then, eh?_

Chuckling and with renewed hope that the day might turn out to be slightly less shit than he'd already written it off as, he headed for the bathroom, stuck the plug in and started the hot tap running.

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_Aren't they just adorably similar? R&R! :)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Note: Thank you ever so much for all your kind words, lovelies, and when we're all done, I promise I shall find the time to respond to each of you individually. :D**

**I've made the decision to split this up for coherency, and I apologise once again for time delays - I SWEAR the last one will be quicker! It's half-written, so it should be up no later than next week.**

**Due to the flow this fic appears to have automatically taken, we're toning it down for this chapter with a little more romance; the final instalment shall be almost entirely fun, so enjoy it while it lasts!**

**Once again, thanks muchly, and please keep reviewing! :D**

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A final slick of ruby lipstick later and Annie Malloy shot a killer grin at the rear-view mirror of her Audi, oozing sultry confidence and jet-black glitter in equal quantities. Who needed nerves, she rationalised, when you were this gorgeous?

"Looking _good_, Superintendent," she murmured appreciatively at her reflection. "Mission objective: have food, have fun, have intelligent conversation, have too much to drink, have sex."

She slid out of her car seat, breathing the crisp night air and expelling any lingering thoughts of Gerry Standing as she exhaled a puff of vapour and stared at the restaurant before her with a smile.

Tonight, she was entirely Jonathan's.

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Jonathan Stokes, meanwhile, was far too caught up in his own world to notice _anyone_ striding across the car park, much less Sandra Pullman. Sparking up a Malboro and winding down the manual window of his classic car, he blew out a flawless stream of smoke, the nicotine significantly relaxing him. Glancing at his watch, he realised he was fifteen minutes early, and he sighed lightly - there was on time, and there was overeager, and to Gerry Standing, a quarter of an entire hour was most definitely the latter. By his reckoning, he had a good ten minutes to kill.

… But then again, maybe Annie liked overly punctual people…

He crinkled his nose in self-disgust, horrified - since when did he care what some bird thought of him? If she wasn't into him, it was her loss and all the more Cockney rogue to go round!

… Except it wasn't, because if it had been, he wouldn't be sitting here, thinking about his boss and about to go and have dinner with some beer-swilling, Chelsea-loving blonde he'd never bloody met.

So, positive impressions… christ, he was _far_ too old for this elementary bollocks. He'd gone so far past caring about hand-holding, candlelight and chocolates that he was practically a walking billboard for casual sex.

So, if he didn't give a hoot and he wanted a shag out of the evening (which he really, truly did, even only if it helped him forget about a certain Superintendent for twenty minutes), perhaps it was an appropriate moment to consult the sacred oracle that was the entirely fictional, self-created book of WWSD - or 'What Would Sandra Do?' After all, she went on about fifty dates a week, and he valued her opinion above virtually anyone else's.

_Depends how interested she was_, his mind responded lightly. _If it was you, she'd be half an hour late or pretend she had a headache - if it was Jonathan, she'd probably be here already._

He smiled wryly, a dash of bitterness tainting his defined features.

"If it was me, she'd have slapped me the second I asked," he corrected darkly, inhaling sharply before throwing his cigarette out of the window. He blew out hard, hands gripping the steering wheel, highly uncharacteristic nerves tingling in his gut, but his gaze sharp with determination.

"Right then," he murmured shakily, sounding remarkably like a man rapidly approaching an unavoidable abyss as he glanced at his reflection. "Knock 'em dead, Gerald, and don't compare her to Sandra. You like her because she's _her_."

Well, it wasn't love, but it was a _start,_ surely?

"A good start," he stated aloud, a brief smile claiming his lips as he locked his car door and headed for the restaurant's entrance.

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It was a betraying flash of blinding fuchsia that attracted Sandra's peripheral vision to the man across the room, but a curious glance was all it took to identify him; suddenly glad she was in the adjoining bar of the restaurant where the atmosphere was somewhat more informal and she was far less likely to get chucked out for causing disruption, she headed for the infuriating bastard, who was just receiving his pint from the barman. She was going to kill him for speaking to her like he had earlier, for daring to question her authority, for storming off like a petulant toddler and skiving a day that she was certain he expected to be paid for, for turning his phone, for making her worry _because_ he'd turned his sodding phone off…

"_Gerry!" _She spat furiously, and as he spun around, his face flashed with sheepish hesitancy, and he rose a brief hand in greeting.

"Evening Sandra," he responded dully, half-heartedly bracing his collarbone as her fist collided with it; he winced heavily, unspeakably grateful that she hadn't gone for his nose - blood spatter was hardly a good first date look - and waited briefly for her to collect her fury.

"Suppose I deserved that," he muttered fairly, eyes widening as she aimed another blow square at his jaw; deftly ducking out of it, he grabbed her spare arm, pulling her round and away from the inevitable impact with the bar and spinning her with the gusto of a figure skater onto the stool beside him. She stood immediately, enraged at having been bested, and lunged for his stomach. Gerry flattened his palm immediately to absorb and counteract the blow; a swift, instinctive movement later and he had the Superintendent pinned to the bar, her arms jammed by her sides by his firm grip, both of them breathing irregularly and staring at each other with intense determination.

"Are you alright there sir?" An intrigued barmaid enquired of their stance, half-concerned and hellishly amused. Gerry gave her a sarcastic smile, briefly nodding.

"Peachy," he responded exasperatedly. "Thank you for asking."

Grinning wickedly, she left them to it with a lingering glance. Mentally cursing her very existence, he turned, stone-faced, to see that the incapacitated detective was sporting precisely the same knowing smirk.

"Given up yet?"

Sandra continued to smirk delightedly at his sardonic tone, leaning into him to explain the hold's obvious weakness.

"You've forgotten about my knees," she pointed out quietly, her eyes trailing briefly to the seat of his black jeans.

"And you've forgotten your weaponless defence training," the former Sergeant riposted dryly. "I could 'ave you over this bar in five seconds."

"Promises _promises_," Sandra murmured devilishly, and damn it all to hell because the shiver that had been threatening to unleash itself since their skin had first made contact chose that precise moment to break free, and the balance of power automatically tipped back to her - never a good thing.

_Advantage Pullman_, his mind remarked sullenly. _Bugger. Useless bastard. You never were any good at tennis._

"I want an apology," she demanded haughtily, and he nodded lightly - it was a fair request.

"I'm sorry, Sandra," he responded quietly, the words genuine, and she smiled wickedly.

"No you're not - you're a bloke."

Gerry sighed deeply.

"Yes I am," he riposted irritably. "I was an arsehole 'oo got worked up about nothing - I acted like my grandson, and I'm 'ereby apologising about it. Now accept it and move on, because 'aving you plastered to my chest is 'ardly the way to impress a new bird!"

_Twat_, his head spat furiously as she stared at him, aghast. He instinctually side-stepped out of their position, and she collapsed onto the nearest barstool, awkwardly straightening her dress and desperate to avoid his gaze.

_Just can't leave it alone that she isn't interested, can you? Sixty-four years of age with three kids and you still haven't grown up - pathetic, Gerald…_

"My fault," Sandra babbled pointlessly, throwing him a fake smile, her eyes glued to a distant wall. "Didn't realise - should've known you wouldn't be here on your own… me neither, for the record. I'm meeting my new bloke here too… odd that we've chosen the same place, isn't it?"

_Christ, I really can't be bothered watching him flirt with another woman, _Sandra's mind acknowledged bitterly.

_Fantastic - like I really need to be watching her cavort with some other prick, _Gerry's mind thought painfully.

"Not really," he disagreed quietly. "We're quite similar, you and I."

Sandra rose an eyebrow, finally meeting his tenuous gaze once more.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes," he confirmed softly. "We're both crap at commitment, share an appreciation for fine food and are bloody good coppers."

She chuckled briefly, her mood lightening a shade.

"Fair point," she replied mildly. "It'd hold more credence if I'd made the choice though."

The Cockney's lips quirked upwards with mild glee.

"Bloody 'ell," he murmured, "you _must_ be trying to make a good impression if you've let 'im pick. Poor bastard - I 'ope he doesn't think that's gonna last!"

Deciding not to share the knowledge that it had simply been down to the fact that he had suggested it and she'd been too emotionally drained to argue, she instead cast him a look of warning and shook her head.

"Don't know what you're on about," she said dismissively. "I'm all about the give and take, Gerald."

"Well, Sandra - if you're givin', I'm takin'."

The Detective Superintendent thanked several deities that she was unconvinced of the existence of that she hadn't ordered a drink yet, because if she'd been mid-mouthful, she'd have just covered him a fusion of Chianti and saliva. Coppers, however, by their very nature, weren't ones to pass up opportunities.

"I'm giving you the chance to buy me a drink - feel free to take it."

Gerry laughed lightly, attempting to make eye contact with the closest barman and internally grateful that she hadn't pulled him on his comment.

"I'm sure lover boy's goin' to adore this," he remarked, his light tone belying the utter hatred he had for the man on principle, and Sandra shrugged, nonplussed.

"He'll get over it," she replied dismissively. "Besides, I've got five minutes yet - that's more than enough time to neck this."

_Jesus Christ, I love you._

The Cockney harshly swallowed at the thought, determined not to let it leave his lips, and virtually choked on his request for a glass of dry white. He smiled briefly at her, and as she returned the gesture, he realised there was an elephant in the room - an enormous grey area that he really didn't want to know about, but felt he had to enquire with regard to or risk being considered an atrocious friend.

"So then," he began as openly as he could bear, "tell me all about Captain Charisma."

Sandra grinned as she received her wine and took a lengthy sip before replying.

"Well, to be fair, I haven't actually met him yet - internet dating, you know - but his name's Jonathan," she commenced, and her colleague froze inside.

_Coincidence_, his mind said instantly. _There must be a thousand Jonathans who using dating websites in London - several thousand -_

"He's fifty-five - "

_Okay, that's less likely, but still plausible - Jack's really called John, it's an old-fashioned name, like Sandra or Brian - _

" - he enjoys Eastern food -"

_So do a lot of people… there must be a million fifty-five year old Jonathans who love a vindaloo in the world -_

" - he's very into his art history -"

_Oh no._

" - and, best of all, he could be George Clooney's doppelganger."

… _It's ME. Fuck! I'M her sodding date!_

Which, naturally, in turn, meant that she was his - and had he not been so completely consumed by horror, he'd have laughed himself stupid; they said internet dating got one nowhere, yet here he was, sitting beside the woman he adored on his first attempt. He'd never gotten close to this in forty hours a week for seven years.

_Worth every penny of the subscription fee, _his mind acknowledged gently, before remembering the situation he was in and descending directly back into utter panic.

"Gerry?"

The Superintendent's voice sliced softly through his private hell, and he cursed himself for his stunned silence.

"'E, uhh… sounds enchantin'," he managed to mumble, and Sandra's eyes tried to search out eyes that he was trying desperately to keep from hers.

"_Gerry!" _She chastised, clearly worried, and he finally dragged his forlorn irises to hers, bitterness almost consuming him. Sandra Pullman had fallen for him - but he wasn't him. He was some artistic, curry-loving prick with a moral compass pointed firmly at north; Jonathan Stokes was loving, kind, intelligent, wise and handsome.

Jonathan Stokes was everything Gerry Standing wasn't, and he was everything Sandra Pullman wanted.

The ex-Sergeant sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose in weariness and depression to ward off the impending headache - it was, sadly, too late to prevent the heartache. Worse still, he would have to tell her - it was either that or have her think she'd been stood up, and he wouldn't have wished the anguish he felt right then on anyone, least of all her. He had ruined her day, and he was about to ruin her night - he owed her that much, if nothing else.

"Sorry," he apologised briefly. "I think I've got a migraine comin' on. Been pulling at me skull since this mornin'."

She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him upright from where he'd practically fallen onto the bar, and surveying his state, her anxiety overrode her desire to enjoy her evening and forget all about him.

"Come on," she encouraged with uncharacteristic softness, "I'm taking you home."

He laughed, acidity clipping the edges of the sound.

"I'll get over it," he reassured quietly. "I'm good for a few more yet, Guv - but you might want to get off. I'm fairly sure your date isn't turnin' up."

Her unease slightly abated, she released him and re-took her seat, bewildered.

"What makes you say that?"

His attempt at a cheeky grin failed miserably.

"Because 'e's already 'ere," he said simply, raising a hand and waving sarcastically at her. "Hello Annie."


	4. Chapter 4

**Note: Once more unto the breach, dear friends, and for the final time…**

**I've been overwhelmed at the positive response to this story, and I wish to thank every single one of you for every review you've written, whether it's been just the single one or if you've commented on every update - you all help me to know exactly where I'm going right, so bless all of you. :D Thank you also for bearing with me - I've thoroughly enjoyed writing this fic, but I'm a busy lady, so my updates can be a little on the rare side! All apologies for this. :)**

**Oh, and I really cannot recall what car Sandra's driving at the minute - it changes every sodding series xD - so for the purposes of this fic, she's currently driving an Audi A4, because it's the sort of thing she drives. Additionally, I have no idea which football team Gerry supports - must have blinked and missed that one - so I've drawn inspiration from Dennis Waterman being a passionate Chelsea supporter.**

**Just to add in, this was written almost entirely to Madness's two greatest hits, **_**One Step Beyond **_**and **_**House of Fun**_**, both of which I feel are wholeheartedly appropriate for this chapter. xD**

**Anyway, I shall now stop ranting and sincerely hope that you love reading it as much as I've loved its creation! :D**

_**NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT**_

Sandra Pullman's eyes immediately snapped to his.

"Say that again."

Clearly, she had hearing problems - any other option was ludicrous. The very idea of Gerry Standing joining a dating website was utterly -

"Hello Annie," Gerry repeated wearily, even replicating the wave.

- _feasible. _It had to be a coincidence, surely?

"Why are you calling me that?" She demanded, a note of pure panic peppering her voice.

"Because I'm your date," he informed her, before emitting a brief bark of incredulous laughter. "Oh, the very thought!"

"Gerry -"

"Jonathan, I think you'll find," he interrupted, desperately attempting not to crumble in front of her, holding out a lightly trembling hand. "Jonathan Stokes - loves a madras, has a second 'ome in the Tate Modern and looks like that bloke out of _The Perfect Storm _- who can resist that, eh?"

Sandra stared at his exposed palm, meeting his gaze momentarily with utter astonishment; she didn't have to be a detective, much less a Superintendent, to know what his hand symbolised. It was a gesture of acceptance; it was her ticket to emotional freedom, and his pass to escaping a smack - a silent _'hey, could be worse - I could've been Brian.' _It was everything she had ever truly wanted to portray - that he wasn't second best, that him and his stupid accent and receding hairline and emotional baggage and adoration for petty gambling were absolutely fine by her, that she found his chauvinism and misogyny strangely alluring, that he didn't need to shag the closest secretary when she was right there, more than willing to buy a vintage Claret and the latest black lace offering from _La Senza _if was up for cooking the _foie gras _and oysters beforehand…

It was absolutely perfect. They'd go next door, consume spring rolls, discuss their current murder case, drink a little too much, end up sharing a taxi because they'd be rendered incapable of driving and have a right laugh about it on Monday morning.

It was a flawless escape clause, the best plausible solution… _if only she could take his hand._ She steeled herself, her eyes riveted to the soft shivers running through his digits that less sharp eyes and worse friends would have easily missed, and reached forwards.

_Yes, go on Pullman_, her mind taunted, deriving a twisted delight from her uncertainty, _keep hiding, just like you always do…_

She hesitated, and as his fingertips brushed her own and electricity shot through her, she instinctively pulled away. Sandra Pullman, for the first time in her life, wasn't going to recede into the shadows and facades of cold-heartedness, inane lust and romantically complex friendships.

… She was going to run away instead. A fake date with Gerry Standing, however pleasant, would never - _could _never - be enough for her, because Gerry Standing wasn't into veiled compliments, subtle glances and soft pouting - he was into sex with attractive women, and she could never simply shag this man then swan off the next morning.

After all, _he_ wasn't in love with _her_.

An apologetic smile briefly touched her lips, the sorrow in her eyes palpable as she whispered "I'm sorry", picked up her bag and fled the bar, fastidiously ignoring his soft calls of her true name and upping her pace.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_," Gerry bemoaned to himself, his heart breaking, but resolutely determined not to follow her and beg for her company - he had more pride than that, and she didn't deserve his self-pity. He allowed gravity a miniature victory as his head collided rather viciously with the bar, almost sending his pint flying, and he momentarily and dramatically considered driving his car into the Thames estuary, because there was no conceivable way he was ever going to get over either the humiliation or the heartache of this evening.

He was never going to be enough for her - she had just made _that_ perfectly clear. Him, his soul and his ego would just have to deal with it. Quite how he would do so was frankly beyond him, but he'd do it - eventually.

… Probably.

"What are you still doin' 'ere?"

It took every molecule of his rapidly dwindling will to live to raise his head off the polished oak of the bar to meet the eyes of the barmaid who'd almost laughed at his and Sandra's rather intimate positioning earlier, and when he managed it, it was with no great enthusiasm.

"What are you on about?" He drawled wearily at the brassy fortysomething Londoner, incapable of remotely caring.

"That chuffin' woman's just walked out on yer, and you're still bleedin' sitting 'ere!" She chastised coolly, her East End brogue more pronounced in her exasperation. "She must be stark-ravin' nuts - I'd never leave a bloke like you in a public place! Anything could 'appen with a girl like me around…"

It was a true mark of his all-consuming depression that Gerry barely even mustered a smile at the blatant flirtatiousness of a rather handsome woman.

"She ain't interested love," he responded bleakly, the words sticking like treacle to his larynx, and the barmaid tutted with exasperation.

"Rubbish," she scoffed. "I saw 'er lookin' at you, mate - she's mad for it!"

"_You're_ mad," the ex-Sergeant riposted with cool infuriation, and the woman laughed lightly.

"Whatever you wanna believe mate - the customer is always right, as they say," she said mildly, before fixing him with a serious but kind look. "Call it female intuition if yer like, but I know what I saw. I 'aven't managed a pub for twelve years without knowin' 'ow to read people. Besides, what've you got to lose by goin' after 'er - a bit of self-esteem?"

"Pride," Gerry muttered. "Ego, self-respect, stubbornness -"

"Nothing then."

He blinked stupidly, as though his mind had just switched back on, and he twisted in lips in a thoughtful pout. The woman had a fair point - surely relinquishing his steadfastness, even if it did involve potential mortification, was preferable to an eternal 'what if'? The worse case scenario was that he'd have a physical bruise to match the one marring his mood…

He grabbed his pint glass, toasted thin air and necked the remainder of its contents for Dutch courage, before smiling warmly at the barmaid, his decision made.

"Thanks," he exclaimed gratefully. "I owe you one."

"All part of the service," she answered, winking. "Now go on - don't let 'er get away!"

He nodded sagely, setting off at a pace, and as she chuckled, her colleague rose an eyebrow.

"Brenda, who the hell was that?"

Her eyes twinkled as she watched the ex-Sergeant throw open the doors of the bar and race through the car park before she turned to her inquisitive assistant manager.

"A lost soul," she explained simply. "That's the third one tonight - 'ad a bloke earlier 'oo couldn't work up the courage to propose, and another oo'd got some other bird pregnant."

"You should be a bloody counsellor," her junior remarked wryly, grinning. "What advice did you give the other two?"

"I told 'em to put up and shut up," Brenda revealed mildly, her arms folded, her lips pouted in a mock-thoughtful expression. "Neither of 'em was as good-lookin' as 'im."

They both glanced at each before simultaneously cracking up.

_**NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT**_

"Silver Audi," Gerry Standing murmured beneath his breath, zipping through the car park like a man possessed, praying to a deity he didn't believe in the existence of that Sandra hadn't already driven off into the proverbial sunset. "Silver Audi - should've gone to Specsavers, you twat, that's a BMW - _ah!"_

The A4 shone beneath a nearby street lamp like his own personal beacon of hope, but as he moved rapidly towards it, he realised both to his chagrin and mild concern that Sandra wasn't in it.

"Where the bloody 'ell - _Sandra!" _He called out, utterly bewildered; she hadn't gone into the restaurant - it was inaccessible via the door she'd fled through - and the same applied to the toilets, which were directly left of the bar; she most certainly hadn't escaped into the sanctuary of all womankind. There was a pub around half a mile down the embankment, but surely she wouldn't have traipsed up there on a frozen February evening without a jacket and when she had a perfectly serviceable car right there?

Lost in thought, he started as his phone beeped to signify an incoming message, and relief echoed through his veins as flipped it open and perused it.

_Turn around, 'Jonathan'._

The Cockney spun on his heel to see a solitary figure leaning against metal railings, artificially blonde locks swept over her shoulder, eyes surveying the inky mystery of the Thames, and he smiled softly. He reached her moments later, adopting her pose on her right-hand side, the serene sound of a lone riverboat chugging doggedly far beneath them breaking the companionable silence. Eventually and when the boat was but a mere speck in the distance, he felt it prudent to pierce the evening with conversation.

"You'll catch yer bloody death," he remarked fussily, removing his jacket and holding it out gallantly to her; she stared briefly and blankly at it, as though its use was something she had no concept of.

"Who are you, my dad?"

Gerry barely repressed a physical shudder; his feelings for Sandra were anything _but_ paternal. Sighing mildly, he pushed it nearer to her.

"It wasn't a bleedin' request," he stated in a cooler tone, and she arched an eyebrow of challenge, her gaze returning to the river but a genuine smirk playing upon her lips.

"And if I refuse?" She teased. Gerry shrugged, too emotionally exhausted to engage in a battle of wits.

"You freeze to death?" He estimated dryly. "No skin off my nose, is it?"

"Charming," she answered mildly.

"Prince," he agreed sagely. "Can't 'elp noticing 'ow it's still in my hand, _'Annie'…"_

"Don't call me that," she snapped, and he smirked indulgently.

"What should I call you then - darling?" He pushed, entertaining himself. "Sweetheart? Guv'nor? Bloody lying cow?"

"Hypocrite," she spat, snapping round to him with iced fury storming through her irises. "Oh, because you really adore a _Caravaggio_, don't you?

The former DS actually laughed out loud, acidity dampening the edges of his amusement.

"Oh, what about you then? Huge fan of Chelsea, are you?"

"I… take a passing interest," she responded uncertainly, a slight flush dusting her cheeks that had little to do with cosmetics.

He snorted cynically.

"Name me _one_ player, Sandra."

She floundered for a good minute, her pretty features scrunched up in thought, before she snapped her fingers in undisguised triumph.

"_John Terry!"_

Gerry shrugged, conceding the point but unwilling to relinquish his advantage.

"Name me one more."

Her lips twisted into an aggrieved frown, anger at being bested shining through her very countenance.

"Piss off," she seethed, but before he could murmur a single syllable of success, she was immediately on the defensive. "You know, I'm still hungry - shall we pop down the local curry house?"

"Only if we can 'ave a few pints of Stella Artois with our vindaloos," he retorted frostily.

"Oh, is this before or after we visit the Tate Modern?"

"Well, it's certainly after a tour round Stamford Bridge with whoever the soddin' 'ell you reckon plays for Chelsea -"

"Yes, that's a good point - you'd need a little while to prep the plastic surgeon beforehand, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, and perhaps we could pop down to the local Natwest - preferably the one you work at - and withdraw your life savings whilst we're at it to finance your extensive facial reconstruction!"

Sandra had never heard such venom steeped into his tone, and was rendered briefly speechless.

"You know what, '_Jonathan'?" _She snarled eventually, and Gerry damn near screamed out a comeback, so frustrated that he could have almost strangled her.

"No, '_Annie'_, I don't - but I'm sure you're going to bleedin' inform me!"

"You can just piss off home, because that's where I'm going!"

As furious, crushed and disappointed by the evening's experience as he was, the thought of her departing, preferring the lonely company of her own flat, was enough to make the hardened ex-detective blanch white with horror. It wasn't _meant_ to be like this; his love for her was not a mockery, and he'd be damned if she'd turn it into one, make a sickening example of his inability to profess his feelings by taking the piss out of the very idea of spending a quasi-romantic evening with him -

Before he could rationalise his behaviour, he had grabbed her rapidly disappearing arm, pulled her back and smashed her lips directly onto his, narrowly avoiding headbutting her in the process. For three solid, painful seconds, wherein they both quivered gently with anticipation, they stood stock still, neither daring to draw breath, both of them stunned that he had been so brazen, before his heart punctuated the silence with a whispered defeatism.

_Bollocks to it…_

He claimed her mouth with the gusto of a man starved, and for the most wonderful few moments of his entire sixty-four and a half years, his boss responded, her tongue caressing his own with a tender dexterity. It was his first clue that she wasn't adverse to the gesture.

The second clue came almost immediately afterwards, when she broke away without punching him anywhere sensitive.

"We can't," she murmured in weak protest, "I don't -"

"Oh no," he challenged, his voice almost shaking, "don't you _dare_ tell me you weren't enjoying that -"

"It's not that," she whispered with surprising softness, "it's just -"

"What, Sandra?"

His words were uncharacteristically tender, and she found herself suddenly incapable of lying to those deep, crystal eyes.

"One night, Gerry… it's just not going to be enough for me."

The weight of the world spontaneously slid from his shoulders, and for the first time in ages, he properly, truly, heartily laughed; which was, apparently, entirely the wrong thing to do.

"Well you can just do one then!" She seethed, and he stopped abruptly, still gasping for air but needing to make her see that he was absolutely not writing off her suggestion.

"No, Christ," he chuckled, "it isn't that, Sandra - I just thought you were about to reject me!"

She rose a sceptical eyebrow briefly.

"If you're taking the piss -"

Her tone threatened death by hanging, and he smiled warmly.

"That profile, Sandra," he explained softly, his eyes firmly fixed on the London Eye several miles downstream, "does it ring any bells?"

The Superintendent thought for a moment; a love for the classically artistic, the penchant for Indian food, the appreciation for a handsome chap, the deep-seated need to feel wanted, desired, loved -

"You were looking for me."

"Well, it was either you or your twin sister - I'd 'ave lived with either," he joked lightly, winking, and she chuckled. "I've only just realised it; I joined for a shag, but subconsciously, I was after you. Still… Stella Artois, Chelsea and dolling yerself up to look like a fifties icon - I wasn't the only one, was I? That's my fictional wishlist, right there…"

She smirked, a faint flush painting her cheekbones pink.

"And we're two determined bastards," she answered, not bothering to deny his analogy - he wasn't in her crack trio for nothing. "I sounded easy, you sounded difficult - match made in heaven."

"Star-crossed lovers," he agreed mildly, "or some similarly Shakespearean bollocks."

He caught her eye, and they both burst out laughing; the very idea of Gerry Standing at a performance of _Romeo & Juliet _was enough to have the pair of them creasing up with hilarity.

"Look, Sandra," he said eventually, staring intently at her, his gaze warm, "I know I'm not some poncey art-dealin' twat with an Alfa Romeo and a studio the size of Whitehall, and you know as well as I do that I'd rather impale meself on a spike outside the Tower of London than take you for a chicken tikka masala -" she snorted with mirth at the very notion "- but I'm certain that I'd treat you better than Captain Fictional… so what d'ya reckon?"

He left the statement open, and she deliberately left him hanging, although there wasn't a shred of rationalization needed to make the right decision.

"You want to know what I reckon?" She teased, and his face fell.

"Possibly," the Cockney responded uncertainly, and the bolshy Superintendent unabashedly beamed.

"I think I fancy a Chinese, Mister Stokes."

Gerry's heart soared, and he grinned in utter delight. So it wasn't an _'I love you, marry me right now'_ - but it was a start, right?

_A good start_, his mind informed him brightly. _A VERY good start._

"You know what, Miss Malloy?" He answered cheerfully. "So do I."

"Fabulous," she riposted, and as they smiled warmly at each other and they headed, arm-in-arm, for the front door of The Garden of the Orient, Gerry Standing came to a conclusion that somehow, he was sure he had known for years.

Love was not a steamy shag in the back seat of a vintage motor induced by far too much lager and lust - not that there was anything wrong with that, but it was far from the be all and end all. No, _au contraire_ (and bugger the Francophonic nature of the comment), love was asking him how he felt about Dim Sum whilst he flashed a grin and a thumbs-up at a curious and triumphant bar manageress as they strolled through the side door. Love was whispering that his date looked absolutely stunning even without the jacket she had never got round to accepting off him as they were shown to a table, and love was enduring the comments that their colleagues would doubtlessly barb them teasingly with once their superlative detective skills worked out the blindingly obvious. Love was the acknowledgement of the sweetest form of victory after seven long years of competition and a hell of a lot of patience. Love was sitting opposite him and ordering them both a glass of room-temperature rice wine with a great big, slightly insane smile.

Love was Sandra Pullman, and that was absolutely fine with both Jonathan Stokes _and _Gerry Standing.


End file.
